


soft touch

by FreshBrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Season/Series 03, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loves every inch of him, her soft boy with his lion heart and adoring smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soft touch

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place generally a month or so after 3x14, but it doesn't really matter--just to give context to their relationship.

Lydia Martin is _not_ soft.

She may dress in pastels, she may tie her hair in braids and weave flowers in the straps of her purse and pull on towering high-heels that make her walk like a newborn colt. She may be compact and curvy, all smooth lines and gentle slopes; her lips may be pink and her hair may be silky. 

But that doesn’t make her soft. It makes her human.

She likes the human side of herself; the side that is allowed to be frilly and girly and sometimes a little vulnerable. She likes the freedom of painting her nails, curling her hair in the mirror while lip-syncing Rihanna songs, picking out pajama pants at Victoria’s Secret with Allison. She spends so much of her life filled with a violent power that she can barely begin to comprehend that she deserves a little…well, _her_ time.

She and Stiles start dating the week after she steps on the trap and she talks him through saving her. She maintains that she saved herself, using Stiles as a conduit, and Stiles wholeheartedly agrees—he’s just happy he can read again. 

“She was like my warrior princess in shining armor,” Stiles said as they walked back to the jeep with Allison and Isaac that afternoon. “God, you should’ve seen her.” He slung an arm around her shoulders, exhausted after the long day, and she was happy to support his skinny frame. “Only Lydia and Scott can help me like that, just by talking.” Sure, Stiles liked the sound of his own voice…he went on and on with hand gestures, detailing the trap, quoting exactly what Lydia said. But that eagerness to give Lydia the glory, the way he looked at her with awe and respect in his eyes—that’s what makes her want to kiss him again. That’s what makes her _like_ him.

“I really am your princess in shining armor,” she says one night, falling into Stiles’ lap as he sits at the foot of her bed. He lounged around while she took a shower, cleaning away her long day. As she walks out of the bathroom, Lydia wears a coconut-scented cleansing mask over her face and a towel in her hair, her clean pink body wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe. “Look at this war paint. I’m ready for anything.”

Stiles wraps his arms around her and looks surprised for a split-second, like he still doesn’t realize how wonderfully lucky he is to see her like that, without her girl-armor. “Of course you are. You could probably take down a demon in this getup.” His hands wander down her back, feeling out the soft curves of her body beneath the chenille robe. 

“If one should come through my bedroom window, I’d be happy to scream it away,” she says cheerfully, and this time, she surprises _herself_. She used to be so afraid of her powers; she used to try to evade them until they blew up in her face. But now, she holds them out in front of her like a bouquet of roses—blossoming, blooming, budding with energy.

Stiles tucks a stray strand of red hair back into her towel, his eyes shining and face slightly flushed like he’s gazing into the sun, Lydia is so beautiful. “You really are something, you know that?” He smears a bit of her face mask off with his thumb, and Lydia wrinkles her nose when he tastes it. “Mmm, is there bananas in this?”

“You are _so_ weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. Some things never change. “If it tastes so good, maybe you should give me a kiss.”

“Gladly,” Stiles boasts, and pulls her in by her hips to smother kisses all over her cream-covered face. Lydia squeals and tries to push him away, but he shows a surprising feat of strength for a lanky kid with zero upper body strength and gently lifts her onto the bed, carefully not to make a mess on her comforter. He props himself up on his arms and looks down at her, his face smeared in white, looking like the cat who literally got the cream. “You don’t scare me, Lydia Martin.”

Lydia smiles, sweet and shy, the sort of smile she reserves only for the silly, calm, peaceful Stiles she has alone in her bedroom on nights like this. She likes being the one with a firm hand in the relationship—she’s the one squeezing his shoulder and patting his leg when he gets anxious, she’s the one who took time to learn the breathing exercises and yoga poses that would help calm him down. But sometimes, it’s nice to be the one wrapped in fluff and smothered in affection. “Am I really your warrior?”

Stiles blanches a little, looks taken aback, and Lydia reaches up with the lapel of her robe and wipes his silly face clean. “Hell yeah.” He softens a little and drops down to his elbows—they both know Lydia doesn’t mind the non-sexual weight of him pressed against her, they both find it soothing. “I couldn’t do this without you, Lydia. You’re like…” he trails off, and kisses her on the forehead, messing up his face again. “You’re like my rock.”

Lydia can’t help but preen. “I like being that. I like being there for you.”

Stiles nods, and flops down next to her, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He tucks his face into her sweet-smelling neck and inhales deeply, his hand wandering towards the tie on her bathrobe. “I hope you know that I’m always there for you, too. I might not be the alpha wolf, but I’m decent with a baseball bat.”

“And you’ve got the jeep,” Lydia plays along, reaching up to ruffle his hair. A secret part of her thinks that sometimes Stiles is soft—he’s emotional, sensitive, and prone to grudges and jealousy. He takes things personally. Sometimes he’s a little selfish.

But she loves every inch of him, her soft boy with his lion heart and adoring smile.

A flood of clenching warmth runs through her body and she tips her head back, inviting him to kiss her neck. “You know, we’ve got the house to ourselves.”

Stiles looks over and grins, boyish and way too eager to keep it under wraps. “Do you want to?”

Lydia rolls her eyes again. “Come on, untie me. I have to wipe my face off or we’ll destroy my sheets.”

Stiles unties and loosen her bathrobe with deft fingers, trembling a little with excitement, and Lydia lets the material cocoon her naked body as she tugs one side to wipe the cream off her face. Stiles helps, rubbing it away with gentle hands, and it leaves her skin clean and pink and soft to the touch. “You’re like a…fairy princess or something,” he says, like he’s perplexed, like he’s exhausted his list of beautiful things to compare her too.

“No,” she says, reaching up to release her damp hair from her towel. She tosses the wet material on the floor and fans her warm hair over her bed, over her breasts. “I’m your warrior.”

He nods, swallowing heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.” 

“Now you,” Lydia says sweetly—she’s much more patient with Stiles than with her past lovers; she’s much more willing to lend time and space. He was a virgin before her and she loves teaching him, teasing him, showing him how to feel good and make _her_ feel good.

He leans over her again, denim-clad legs bracketing her naked body, and before he even goes for his own clothes, he leans down and presses a kiss to her breasts, just above the nipple, butterfly-soft and sweet. He presses kiss after kiss, more sensual than sexual, in the valley between her breasts, until she is breathing heavily, fingers tangled in his hair.

“I’m already wet, Stiles…hurry up,” she says, and she knows she looks beautiful—bare-faced, her hair damp and tangled, her skin flushed and pupils dilated. 

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters, lowering his head for a moment like he’s praying. When he kneels and unzips his jeans, pulling his belt in one smooth motion, Lydia’s thighs part automatically for him. Stiles is thin and boyish and still maturing, but when they’re together like that, he’s her hunter, her guardsman…he’s _her_ warrior. 

And she wants him inside of her.

She yanks his underwear down his thighs, lets him scramble to kick his clothes off like a puppy, and welcomes his naked warmth as he relaxes back on top of her. “Condom?” She kisses him before he can answer, wet and deep.

“One sec,” he says, arching back and rummaging in her night table. “Here we go.”

She takes it from him and rolls it on—he’s already fully hard and ready to go, bigger than Lydia would’ve originally guessed he’d be, but he’s not an ass about it like some guys. “I want it slow tonight,” Lydia says, almost in a whisper. “Make it nice and gentle, okay? We have time.”

Stiles swallows heavily again, and braces himself on one elbow as he brings his hand down to her cunt, thumb pressed against her clit. “Any way you want it, Lyds. Whatever is fine with me.” She practically purrs under his touch, back bowed, the pink fluff of her robe suddenly as warm as a furnace around her. She feels like a mama bear warm in a den—she’s never felt so safe in someone’s arms.

Stiles slides a finger into her cunt, slow and curved just the right way to make Lydia moan into his neck. “Mmm, Stiles, there you go… _fuck_ , you’re so good to me.”

“I try,” he says with a short laugh, but his voice is strained, and Lydia reaches down and takes his cock, pressing the swollen head against her clit. She loves the blunt pressure, the rush it gives her before they fuck.

When he finally slides into her, she wraps her legs around his waist, slick damp skin sliding together. “Oh, _Stiles_ ,” she moans, _every time_ , saying his name like a dirty prayer. She can’t help it—it just comes out when he pushes into her with a slow snap of his hips, she says his name like he’s a cross between a naughty child and a suave Southern rascal. He teases her afterwards, but she doesn’t care—it’s just a flood of emotion, of affection.

“Lyd-Lydia, Lydia, oh my god…oh my god…” Of course Stiles isn’t quiet; he’s never been quiet a day in his life, but Lydia doesn’t mind that either. His hands wander down her body, worshipful, fingers brushing against her nipples, thumb grinding against her clit in time with his thrusts.

She comes first—always. And generally more than once.

Lydia has come to learn that her boy is a champion in bed.

Stiles disposes of the condom, shivering a little as he leaves the bed, and Lydia catches her breath before welcoming him back onto the mussed comforter with open arms. “That was nice,” she says, like she’s almost surprised. “I always want to go gentle, but then I’m the one to rev it up.”

Stiles laughs, pulling her into his arms. He has a smear of face cream on his bicep, and another on his neck. “No complaints from me. I told you, whatever you want.”

She snuggles him into the robe, sharing the warmth with him. “Look at us. A couple of soft pink humans in this crazy town.”

He wraps an arm around her waist, closing his eyes. “How do we survive it?”

Lydia kisses his head and smooths his hair; she never wants to let him leave her room. “We have each other.”


End file.
